


the legend goes

by flowermasters



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Behavior, Cultural Differences, Developing Relationship, Echo whump, Episode: s04e13 Praimfaya - Time Jump, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Alternating, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Rating will change, Self-Esteem Issues, Sparring, Unplanned Pregnancy, no madi because i said so❤️, reluctant allies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26865370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flowermasters/pseuds/flowermasters
Summary: Post-S4 AU. Bellamy goes to the tower during Praimfaiya instead of Clarke. He doesn't expect Echo to come looking for him.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Echo
Comments: 46
Kudos: 65





	1. from our bones

**Author's Note:**

> i do it all for duckykru
> 
> rating, tags, warnings, etc. will shift. this is an AU from 4x13 on. canon-typical references to death, suicide, and starvation/dehydration are included in this.
> 
> title comes from: [x](https://theoffingmag.com/poetry/follow-the-moon/)

Echo falls as the death wave comes.

In the mad sprint through the trees, her foot gets caught on something—a rock, a root—and the ground rears suddenly up to meet her. Bellamy doesn’t stop moving, just yanks on her arm roughly enough to nearly pull it out of the socket—but then she’s on her feet again, running somehow faster, nearly outstripping him. He doesn’t let go of her arm, and so they drag one another along.

She can hear it, the roar of all-consuming destruction behind them—or maybe that’s a noise of her own invention, the awful sound of her own terror in her ears. Half-blind, she lets Bellamy drag her into the bunker; insensate of whether the doors have closed or not, she follows him doggedly as they barrel further into the building.

“Are you crazy?” he shouts, his voice ragged. He rounds on her, letting go of her arm. She looks into his face but can only see the spiderweb of cracks on the glass window of her helmet. 

“Echo,” he says, horror in his voice. “Echo, your face.”

“Are we safe?” she asks. Her skin is burning. The lab is so quiet, though the world outside is ending. “Bellamy, are we safe?”

“I think so, for now,” he says as he removes his helmet. She clutches at a nearby table for support. “Echo, what have you done?”

“I don’t feel well,” Echo says. She can taste the coppery tang of blood in her mouth, feel it running slickly down her throat. Before Praimfaiya, before the injection Clarke gave her, the sores in her mouth wouldn’t stop bleeding. She hasn’t noticed them since, too consumed with everything else going on. Does her blood run black yet?

Bellamy tugs her helmet off and tosses it aside, then grabs at her shoulders to hold her still. She can’t make out his face anymore. “Echo, what have you _done_ ,” he says, sounding—despairing? Or perhaps simply confused. “You could’ve _lived_.”

She could’ve, if the others made it to their ring in the sky—but Bellamy didn’t return from the tower, though the others waited as long as they could. They were going to go on without him; they had no choice if they wanted to survive. But something in Echo had said, with frightening certainty, _not without Bellamy_.

She says nothing, unable to speak for the blood filling her mouth. Her knees drop out from under her, and Bellamy reaches for her instinctively. She doesn’t register hitting the ground this time.

* * *

Echo wakes when a door eases open. 

She’s been sleeping brokenly for what feels like some time now. At first, the pain woke her now and then, stabbing, burning aches that shot through her body, but recently she’s woken only for the comings and goings of someone else. In her delirium, she thinks it might be Bellamy.

This time, he approaches the bed; Echo can hear heavy footfalls on the floor. “You awake?” he asks. So it is Bellamy.

She opens her eyes, blinking a few times at the ceiling before turning her head to look at him. She’s in the room overlooking Becca Pramheda’s lab, indicated by the wall of windows opposite the bed. Sheets and a blanket have been pulled over her, and her radiation suit and boots have been removed. Bellamy must have taken them off her and put her in the bed. Was she unconscious when he did that?

“How long have I been asleep?” she asks hoarsely.

“About eighteen hours,” Bellamy says. The dark hollows under his eyes suggest he has not slept in that time himself, or at least not well. “You’ve been—pretty sick.”

Echo follows his gaze as it flicks to the nightstand to the left of the bed; there’s a dried smear of black on the glossy wood surface, a partial handprint. The size of the palm tells her it must be Bellamy’s. “Is that—my blood?”

He makes a wry face, barely a twitch of his mouth. “Yeah, you went full _Exorcist_ on me,” he says. At her blank look, he says, “It’s—don’t worry about it. At least you don’t remember that. It’s going to stick with me for a lifetime.”

Echo looks back at the table. There’s a glass of water next to the smear of blood, as well as a damp rag. She has the vague idea that Bellamy might have been mopping her forehead with the cloth, then dismisses it. He was probably cleaning up the mess. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Don’t be,” Bellamy says. “At least we know the nightblood serum works. I think you’d probably be dead otherwise.”

Echo swallows. _Ai laik natblida_. The idea is unnatural, the thought unholy. But she’s alive to think it.

She shifts, bracing herself on her elbows to sit up, but a simmering ache flares in her gut and she stills. Bellamy sighs softly, a noise of bone-deep exhaustion, and sits down heavily in the chair beside the bed. He’s taken off his radiation suit but is still dressed in the clothes he wore during the conclave. He looks pale and grim, his lips thin in a lingering frown.

“Are you alright?” Echo asks.

“Fine,” he says. “I’m alive.”

“Do you know if the others made it?” 

“I don’t know,” he says, his brow furrowing. “And I won’t, not for a while, at least. I’ve been trying to get the radio to work for hours, but no dice. I don’t know much about any of the equipment downstairs, but every single reading those computers are putting out is in the red.” 

He pauses, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth very briefly. “The building seems to have held up okay, but all the outdoor cameras have been knocked out. We’re blind, at least for now.”

Echo swallows. There’s no point in beating around the bush. “What will we do?” 

Bellamy looks at her grimly. “I’ll give the dust some time to settle,” he says. “Then I’m finding the Rover and going to Polis. If I can make contact with the Second Dawn bunker, I will.”

They’ll let him in, of course; the same can’t be said for her. Echo keeps her expression neutral, but Bellamy must read her resignation in her silence. “I didn’t say you couldn’t come with me,” he says.

Her gut aches. “I’ve been banished, remember?”

Bellamy pauses. When she can finally bring herself to look at him, she finds him watching her, his expression thoughtful. “I’ll talk to my sister and the others,” he says finally. “If there’s room for me in there, maybe there’s room for you.”

Perhaps letting her be damned to Praimfaiya was one thing, but the possibility of a slow death offends his sensibilities. Whether it’s his mercy or his pity, Echo has no room or inclination to argue with it. “Thank you,” she says.

He nods, his pensive expression lingering for a few seconds before sharpening into something more focused. “How do you feel?”

Terrible. “I’m alive,” she says.

His mouth twitches with tired amusement. “Yeah,” he says. “Barely. There’s a shower up here when you feel up to it—might do you some good.”

She feels disgusting, covered in days’ worth of grime and now probably vomit and blood, as well. She makes a wry face at his lack of subtlety, then winces slightly. Her face feels tight, the skin raw and irritated. She reaches up with one hand and runs her fingers gingerly over her cheeks. “What’s happened to me?”

“Radiation burns,” Bellamy says. “From when your helmet cracked. The serum should help.” 

Echo nods. Perhaps she’ll have scars to show for it. Something pierces her heart at the thought. 

Bellamy’s watching her again. “You almost died, you know,” he says. “For a few hours there, I wasn’t sure you were gonna make it.”

Echo doesn’t know what to make of his expression, the slightly furrowed brow and focused gaze. “I’m hard to kill,” she says.

Bellamy presses his lips together slightly, not quite meeting her gaze anymore. Is he thinking of his hands wrapped around her throat, too? 

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.”

Echo swallows. It hurts to do so, either from bruising or radiation sickness or something else entirely. “You look tired,” she says. “You should get some rest.”

He nods once, then gets to his feet, moving stiffly like an old man until he straightens up. “You, too,” he says. “There’s a cot downstairs. Shout, and I’ll hear you.”

He pauses, looking down at her, and Echo realizes he’s waiting for a response; she nods, and he turns away and leaves the room. As she listens to his footsteps trail away, Echo imagines it: crying out and having him come running. It’s a nice thought, even if it is delusion at the end of the world.

* * *

It takes nearly a month for her full strength to return, and six weeks for the burns on her face to fade. Six long weeks in Becca Pramheda’s lab—Echo has more than enough time to study her own face in the mirror.

Living with Bellamy is a bit like living with a ghost. He frets, paces, wanders. Some days they don’t even speak; those days are the worst, interminable silence broken only by Bellamy’s occasional mutters to himself. He spends a good deal of his time sitting at one of the consoles wearing the earmuffs he calls _headphones_ , listening for even a fragment of intelligible sound over the radio. At night, he unplugs the headphones and lets the static play, its quiet, unceasing roar filling the lab like the crash of waves. The sound might be soothing if it didn’t represent such bleak lonesomeness.

Then, one morning, as Echo is at one of the lab tables, snapping their breakfast—a single protein bar—in half, Bellamy comes downstairs with a pack slung over his shoulder. His hair is in his eyes, curls damp from the shower, but he looks brighter and more alert than he has in weeks.

Echo stills as he approaches. “So today’s the day,” she says.

“I think so,” he says, depositing the pack on the floor next to the table. “I got everything together last night, except one or two things from upstairs.”

She’d heard him rustling around downstairs late the night before; by peeking through the wall of glass, she was able to see him rifling through drawers in the lab, consulting a handwritten list now and then. Packing. She’s not surprised he’s decided to leave—his mood has been increasingly restless of late. She’s only surprised he didn’t leave without her.

“Are you sure it’s safe?” she asks.

He shrugs. “The readings aren’t changing—and I don’t think they will, at least for a while. But we’re both nightbloods now. I have to hope that’ll be enough. Besides—we can’t stay here much longer.”

Echo nods, then offers him his half of the ration bar. “You should eat,” she says. “You’ll need your strength.”

He accepts the offering, but frowns at her. “ _You_ should pack up,” he says. “Anything you might need that I didn’t think of. You are coming, aren’t you?”

They haven’t talked about Polis, not since she was so ill—she’s been trying not to think about it, even as the days have turned into weeks and now into months. At least she and Bellamy can manage civil conversation, trapped here together. If they leave, even if she goes with him, even if she’s allowed into the bunker—will he ever speak to her again? Will anyone, if the survivors of her people have discovered that their king’s last decree was to banish her?

“Echo,” Bellamy says, drawing her from her thoughts. His expression is serious. “Even if I leave you most of the food, you’ll be starving in a couple weeks at best. When you run out, you may not be able to find anything edible outside. It’s going to be a whole new world out there.”

He’s right, of course. She has no choice, and is only prolonging the inevitable. “Of course I’m coming,” Echo says. “Let me get my blade.” 

Rubble has fallen over the bunker’s outer doors. It takes them thirty minutes to carefully shift the fallen concrete enough to form a hole big enough for Bellamy to squirm through. The air doesn’t burn them in that time, though, which Echo hopes is a good sign.

She has only seen the kind of desolation that surrounds them once before, when she had to venture into the Dead Zone during a mission. The sunlight nearly blinds her at first, though the sky seems almost ruddy, as if a layer of dust clings even to the clouds. The wind blows harshly, ruffling Echo’s hair, tickling her still-tender cheeks. Everything that once stood on or around the island has been destroyed; there is no water visible in the distance, only miles of scorched earth.

She and Bellamy stand in the rubble for a moment, both of them silent as they look around. Then Bellamy says, “Let’s hope there’s a better view where we’re going. Come on.”

By following the map Bellamy found in the lab, they’re able to locate the Rover quickly enough; digging it out from under the mound of dirt and dust that has settled over it takes almost as long as finding it does. Bellamy pronounces it to be in working order, and without much ado they load up and set off for Polis.

Bellamy turns up the radio in the Rover as he drives, letting static fill the small space. At every slight warp in the sound, both of their gazes twitch towards the device; could it be Bellamy’s sister, calling out for him from underground? Or his friends in the sky? 

The sound recedes back to its usual hum. Bellamy’s jaw clenches, then relaxes; he shifts his grip on the wheel. “Atmospheric radiation,” he says, as if answering a question she hasn’t asked. He’s already told her as much before. “Raven said it would be like this.”

Echo watches him, waiting for his posture to relax. “Soon you won’t need it.”

Bellamy says nothing, but he glances at her, nods, and looks forward again. The muscle in his jaw twitches. 

* * *

The ruination of Polis doesn’t lessen Echo’s fears.

Weeks of isolation and inactivity have not been kind to Bellamy. Echo has done her best to provide stimulation in the form of conversation and companionship, but he’s been reticent with her—perhaps understandably so. It was usually easier to leave well enough alone, though being in the lab made her feel caged in a horribly familiar way. Bellamy’s simmering anxiety is palpable even in complete silence, and the tension only ratchets higher as they approach the city.

The buildings surrounding the bunker have all collapsed, burying the entrance under rock. Again they stand in the rubble for a moment in silence, both of them studying their environment. The wind whistles through the empty streets around them. Polis has never been so quiet.

“If we reach the door,” Echo says finally, “will they be able to hear us?”

“They’d better,” Bellamy says. He presses his lips together thinly, marshaling himself, then turns away. “I brought gloves.”

The gloves protect their hands from the bite of the concrete, but it’s draining work; after weeks of living off half rations, Echo barely has the strength to swing a crowbar, let alone to use one to shift chunks of rubble. As weak as they both are, this work could take weeks—and that’s being optimistic. They work the remaining few hours to sunset, by which time they’re both exhausted and pale, slick with sweat. Echo falls asleep in the back of the Rover with a bite of protein bar in her mouth. 

The shriek of metal against rock wakes her before dawn the next morning, and she clambers out of the Rover to find Bellamy already hard at work. “The rubble’s shifted overnight,” he says, barely looking up when she creeps into the cavern they’ve been working on clearing. The space is lit by the glow of a single flashlight. “We’d better move fast.”

The night has undone most, if not all, of what they were able to accomplish yesterday, but Echo doesn’t complain. They work for about an hour before she manages to drag a chunk of concrete far enough to reveal the curved edge of something inlaid into the floor. “The door,” Bellamy says. “Right there.”

“I see it,” Echo says thinly, and Bellamy drops the crowbar in his hands to grab for the rock in hers.

“You’re shaking,” he says. “Did you eat this morning?”

Echo shakes her head, and he helps her ease the chunk of concrete to the ground and out of the way. It’s terribly cramped with two of them in here; Echo feels an errant shiver of claustrophobia come over her as they both straighten up, less than a foot of space separating them. There are spots floating in her vision.

“Go,” Bellamy says, jerking his head towards the cavern’s opening. “Eat my share, too.”

Echo hesitates, but Bellamy just looks at her, his dark eyes insistent. So she goes, wending her way carefully through the rubble until she steps out into the fresh air. She sits on the Rover’s bumper and has a sip of water from her canteen, then nibbles at a ration bar. They’re dry, flavorless things, and the mouthfuls scrape her throat raw going down. Soon they’ll be gone, though, and she may spend the rest of her life missing them.

She can hear Bellamy working in the cavern, grunting with exertion and swearing occasionally. Echo closes her eyes and breathes deeply, willing herself away from the edge of fainting. Then something rumbles much louder than her own empty stomach could and she opens her eyes.

“What was that?” she calls. 

“Shit,” Bellamy says from within, his voice tight. “ _Shit_.”

Another rumble comes, more ominous than the first. Echo gets down from the bumper. “Bellamy?”

“Oh,” he says, despairingly, “oh, oh—”

 _O,_ Echo realizes distantly, O for Octavia, before she lurches forward and darts into the opening in the rock. The ground underneath her feet is shaking, the rubble around them shifting visibly. Bellamy is crouched over the door, which he’s made barely any progress clearing, his face turned helplessly upwards. Echo recognizes the posture of someone who intends to die right where they are. 

She grabs him by the upper arm and wrenches violently, and he topples towards her; they run, her pulling and him stumbling half-upright, and burst into the open air just as the rubble descends.

Bellamy trips, falling hard and bringing her down with him; her knees and elbows hit the ground painfully, but she can’t focus on anything other than scrambling away from the collapsing building. When the rumble goes silent, she looks back for Bellamy. He’s sitting up a few feet away, staring at the pile of rubble that now rests over the bunker like a funeral mound.

“No,” he says, stunned. “No.”

Echo turns over into a sitting position and checks herself for injuries. Her knees and elbows are scraped, but that’s the worst of it. “Are you hurt?” she asks Bellamy.

He hardly seems to hear her. His expression is—something awful. Raw horror leaves his eyes wide and lips parted as he stares at the rock. “We’ll never get down there now,” he says hoarsely. “Not even if we work for days. Weeks.”

Maybe not if they work for months, nor even years; Echo doesn’t think it’s kind to tell him this, though, especially not when he already seems to have figured it out. “It’s too dangerous with only two of us,” she says. “When your friends come down, they’ll be able to help. Your friend Raven will come up with something.”

Bellamy shakes his head as if in refusal. “That’ll be five years from now.”

“You were ready for that before Praimfaiya, and so was Octavia,” Echo says, as kindly as she can. “Your sister will be fine. You said they have a farm; she’s better off than we are.”

Bellamy shakes his head again. There’s concrete dust covering his hair, his face, his broad shoulders; his very skin seems to have taken on a stony cast. “Don’t you _see_ ,” he says. “They’re trapped down there now. If the others don’t come down—if they didn’t make it, if they can’t help me—”

“Believe that they made it,” Echo urges. She shifts her aching limbs, preparing to get to her feet. She needs to get him up and moving before he can fall further into despair; grief and hopelessness will kill him at the rate he’s going. “Have faith in your friends, Bellamy.”

“My sister,” he moans. He drags his hands over the pockmarked ground. He must’ve forgotten gloves this morning; his fingertips are raw, blackened with his own blood. “She’s down there, and I’m—”

He takes in a single shuddering breath. Something clenches in Echo’s breast. “Bellamy,” she says. “You’re not alone.”

Bellamy stiffens and finally turns his head to look at her. The reddened rims of his eyes stand out in his dusty face. “Yeah,” he says. “You’re right, I’m not. Probably be better off if I was, though.”

Echo gapes at him. “What?” he snaps, holding eye contact with her even as the bitter tears brimming in his eyes spill over, leaving wet tracks down his cheeks. “Do you think _we’re_ friends now? You think we’re in this together?”

His mouth twists. “We’re _stuck_ , Echo. We’re doomed. You wasted your chance to live when you left that rocket.”

Echo stares at him for a few seconds longer, uncomprehending, until finally she remembers herself. “Yes,” she says quietly. “I guess I did.”

She gets to her feet as calmly as she can, watching Bellamy as he watches her. He looks up at her for a beat, slightly wide-eyed, either afraid or regretful or both. 

Echo decides it doesn’t matter how he feels. She turns on her heel and walks away.

* * *

She only makes it about fifty meters down the street before he calls out for her to wait, but she doesn’t heed him and he doesn’t follow, at least not right away. There aren’t many places left in Polis to hide, aside from burying herself under rubble. She’s not yet to the point of entombing herself.

He comes looking for her about an hour later and finds her sitting under the overhang created by a stone wall that has toppled against the ruins of another building. She wasn’t sure whether he would come, but she isn’t hiding.

She hears his boots crunching over stone dust as he approaches, but deliberately does not look up at him. “Hey,” he says gruffly, coming to a halt about ten feet away. “I brought you some water. Thought you might be thirsty.”

Echo’s mouth is uncomfortably dry—her eyes, too. They burn and prickle with each gust of the breeze. “Best to conserve it,” she says, keeping her gaze fixed ahead even though she can see Bellamy in her peripheral vision, standing there holding the canteen. “Until things get dire.”

Bellamy huffs, darkly amused. “I think it’s safe to say we’ve reached that point.”

She shrugs. “You have your vehicle,” she says. “You can go search for water.”

“Echo,” he says, half sighing. “I want you to come with me.”

Echo focuses on controlling the muscles of her face. When a mask slips or cracks, it can almost always be repaired and put back into place by any spy worth their salt. Echo is a very good spy.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Bellamy says, his tone growing more insistent as he’s met with no reaction whatsoever. “I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it.”

“You did,” Echo says. “Don’t waste lies on me.”

Bellamy shifts his weight. His frustration is palpable, but he doesn’t walk away. It would be very easy for him to wash his hands of her once and for all; she has certainly washed hers of him. And yet here they both are.

“Even if I did,” he says, “I was wrong. Of course I’m better off with you here. Don’t know if you lucked out with me, though.”

He’s trying to be funny, but she can’t bring herself to find the humor in it. She _did_ luck out with him, at least once before; she’s alive now, for whatever that’s worth, because of him.

“I should thank you,” Bellamy says, breaking her reverie. “You saved my life, getting me out of there.”

He pauses. She can hear rock fragments grinding under his boots as he shifts his weight again. “And I know your heart was in the right place when you came looking for me during Praimfaiya. I should thank you for that, too.”

The words spill out of her so suddenly that she feels like an egg yolk that has been pierced—or, perhaps, like her heart itself has been pierced. “You said you would come back for me,” she says, looking up at him briefly. “In the mountain. So I came back for you.”

Bellamy blinks, his brows drawing together slightly. Then he seems to school his expression. “I had a mission. You know that.”

“Yes,” Echo says, looking forward again. “Nevertheless. It’s been a long time since someone made me a promise. Longer still since anyone kept one.”

She’s alive because of him in more ways than one. She was going to cut herself open in Becca Pramheda’s bunker the night of Praimfaiya. She was going to die by her own hand; the knife would’ve probably been kinder to her than the death wave. But she waited, listening to the increasingly frantic chatter of the others in the lab below, waiting for the deep rumble of Bellamy’s voice to join theirs again. She waited for him to return so that she could die knowing that he might live. It would give her death, alone and disgraced as she was, some small measure of meaning.

Boots crunch over stone again; Bellamy approaches, holding out the canteen. “Here,” he says quietly. “We’ve still got another full bottle.”

Echo accepts the bottle from him, but doesn’t drink from it. Their straits are not so dire yet. Bellamy stands there for a moment longer, then surprises her by lowering himself carefully down onto the same chunk of stone she’s sitting on. 

“I’m sorry I lost it earlier,” he says. “I knew this was a possibility, but—I guess I still wasn’t prepared for it.”

Echo looks at him, opening her mouth to speak, but Bellamy continues unaware, his gaze fixed on the ground. “There’s one last dose of nightblood serum,” he says. “It’s in my pack. I was going to give it to Dr. Griffin, if there’s any chance she can make more. If not—to my sister. So she can survive anywhere.”

Echo bites her lip briefly, then says, “I’m sorry about your sister, Bellamy.”

She hopes he understands her true meaning. Not just that she’s sorry Octavia is trapped and that they’re separated, but deeper still: _I’m sorry about what I did. I’m sorry about the pain I caused you both._

Bellamy glances at her. He’s wiped some of the dust off his face, but it lingers in his hair. His eyelashes are dark, still clumped from tears. “Me, too,” he says. “But you’re right. If my people have gotten that farm up and running, Octavia’s in better shape than we are.”

Echo meets his eyes for a beat, then looks away, casting her gaze over the demolished city around them. She can feel Bellamy watching her.

“So,” he says after a moment. “How do we survive?”

Echo shakes her head, musing, contemplating the very long odds. “I don’t know,” she says. “But we have to try.”

She hears him inhale softly. “Together?” he asks.

She looks back at him. “Together.”

* * *

They go to Arkadia first.

They don’t find any food, and only a scant amount of water, scooped from puddles inside the structure. They can’t even boil it for fear of wasting it. Echo almost suggests that they stay for the night, just to have a shelter over their heads that isn’t the cramped bed of the Rover, but Bellamy disappears for a while and comes back silent and red-eyed and she can’t bring herself to ask.

They set off next for the nearest Trikru village Echo knows of—or, at least, the nearest Trikru village that was still standing at the time of Praimfaiya; it’s been flattened, now, too. Bellamy defers to her now, which unnerves her slightly. Having lost the goal that’s kept him going for the last six weeks, he seems to be in need of a new one. So Echo names one landmark, then another. Bellamy drives.

They reduce their rations down to a bite each three times a day, but they’re completely out within six days. Their supply of water lasts only five.

On the seventh day, Bellamy just starts driving. They’re headed north; he could be headed back to Becca’s island, but Echo suspects not. He didn’t sleep well the night before; Echo could hear him mumbling and shifting fitfully in the back. She heard because she didn’t sleep at all, too consumed with the nausea of a stomach turning inward. Now, exhaustion overcomes her; she falls into a thin, restless sleep, slumped against the passenger door.

She wakes when they jolt to a stop. It’s been hours; the sun is high in the sky now. Bellamy is leaning forward in the driver’s seat, his wrists propped against the wheel as he stares out the dingy windscreen.

He doesn’t seem distressed, or at least no more so than usual. He’s lost weight—they both have; Echo can count all of her ribs now. The angles of his cheekbones and chin are unnervingly sharp in profile. Patchy stubble has sprung up at his jawline. He looks worse than she’s ever seen him, far worse even than the mountain.

“Am I hallucinating?” he asks, his voice gravelly from thirst and disuse.

Echo licks dry lips, watching him for overt signs of madness. “What do you see?”

“A hole in the ground,” he says, nodding his head forward.

Echo follows his gaze. The immediate terrain is mountainous, elevated, and bleak. Ahead, though, is the visible depression that signals a valley.

“These must be Louwoda Kliron Kru lands,” Echo says, sitting up, her joints creaking. “Keep driving.”

He does. At first Echo is only mildly interested in the valley—one last landmark for them to explore together, at least—but as they approach, its colors resolve not into the lifeless blackness she expects, but into a rich, dark green.

“You see it, too, don’t you?” Bellamy asks, as the Rover trundles over dead earth. “Echo?”

Unless they have both descended into the same delirium, what she sees is real. “Yes,” she says, her voice hushed and creaky. “It looks like . . .”

“Life,” Bellamy says, glancing at her, his eyes alight with something new. Not madness, but hope. “It looks like life.”


	2. to burn it like cedar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s all become routine, though that still feels strange if he thinks about it, the expanse of five more years ahead threatening to crush him at odd moments.

“Oh, come now,” Echo says. “You can do better than that.”

Bellamy musters the composure to glare at her as he sits up. His tailbone aches from landing on the ground hard enough to knock the breath out of him. “Yeah, yeah, go float yourself.”

Echo is unphased by this. “Such a silly phrase,” she says, holding out a hand.

Bellamy pridefully rejects her offer and gets up. “ _Chuk yu_ , then.”

At this she smiles thinly, then backs up to give him some space as he clambers to his feet. “At least you’ve picked up some of our ways,” she says. “If not our fighting styles.”

“You don’t exactly fight fair,” Bellamy mutters.

“You whine too much,” Echo says, and strikes.

He barely manages to dodge the blow, and even still her hand comes close enough to his head to snag his ear. Bellamy growls, frustrated, and makes a grab for her waist, but she slips out of his grasp as easily as a fish in the stream just out of sight.

They’ve been sparring in the hours after breakfast each day for a few weeks now. It was Echo’s idea, but Bellamy agreed with her reasoning; after they spent several weeks resting, eating regularly, and getting the lay of the land, the next step was to rebuild and maintain their strength. If these sessions also serve as training for Bellamy, Echo has been kind enough not to mention it. For the most part.

“You give yourself away too easily,” Echo says, springing away from him, her braid whipping behind her. “When you’re frustrated, especially.”

He deliberately does not take this bait, so he must’ve picked up _some_ things. “When can we switch to swords?” he asks, taking the opportunity of her distance to lift the hem of his shirt and mop at his forehead. It’s humid under the trees, even at this early hour on a summer day. Bellamy’s shirt is sticking unpleasantly to his back, but it seems unfair to her to take it off.

Her tank top is sticking to her skin, too. The hair at her temples has gone dark with moisture, and the sharp points of her collarbones gleam in the dappled sunlight filtering through the tree cover. “You don’t want to fight with swords,” she says.

Bellamy frowns at her, mirroring her as she paces a slow half-circle around him. “Why wouldn’t I? I want to learn.”

“You only want to avoid getting knocked in the dirt again,” Echo says, raising her eyebrows at him. “A sword won’t help you there.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “Look, I’m getting a little tired of—”

By the time he realizes Echo’s about to kick him, the toe of her boot is already jammed into his ribcage. He grunts and nearly loses his footing, and Echo comes close enough to whap him on the side of the neck as though she’s swatting a fly. “I _told_ you,” she says. “You whine too much.”

Bellamy hurls himself forward with a grunt, catching her around the middle and taking them both to the ground. Echo grunts in surprise as she slams into the grass, and Bellamy suffers a searing pain in his right wrist as he catches himself to keep from dropping his full weight down onto her.

For the barest instant she just stares up at him, literally stunned; he can see it in her eyes when her brain catches up with the rest of her. She cinches her legs on either side of his waist and muscles him over with a snarl. His left arm ends up pinned halfway under his back. She catches at his right arm as he reaches for her, then somehow manages to stay in place as he tries to buck her off, her strong thighs clenching tight as she holds on. 

Now they’re wrestling on the ground like children, her wiry strength holding out against his own at least in the short term. “Yield,” she grits out, squeezing his forearm tightly.

Bellamy hisses in pain. “Alright, alright.”

Echo’s expression turns startled, her brows drawing together slightly and her lips parting. She releases his arm, but doesn’t move otherwise. Her knees are planted on either side of his middle. “Are you hurt?”

“My wrist,” he mumbles. “It’s nothing—”

She beckons with one hand, and he rolls his eyes and holds his arm up, letting her gently take hold of his wrist. It’s not even swelling—a minor sprain, at worst. The arm pinned underneath him is starting to hurt worse.

Echo hums softly as she inspects his wrist. “I’d better get the whiskey,” she says. “We might have to amputate.”

Bellamy snorts. “Shut up,” he says, squirming under her.

Echo blinks, then lets go of his arm and moves gracefully off of him. “That’s enough for today, anyway,” she says as she straightens up. “It was a good bout.”

She offers him a hand again, but he gets up on his own. “Yeah, for you, maybe.”

Echo gives him that same thin, pleased smirk from earlier. The expression is rare enough that Bellamy can’t help but notice when it appears. “It’s always a good bout for me.”

“Pride goes before a fall,” Bellamy says. “They didn’t teach you that in _your_ fighting lessons?”

“They did,” she says, arching a brow at him. “Consider this me teaching you the same.”

They make their way back into the village together, as is routine. It’s all become routine, though that still feels strange if he thinks about it, the expanse of five more years ahead threatening to crush him at odd moments. Still, it’s not _unpleasant_. They usually separate for a few hours after they spar; Echo leaves to find their next couple meals while Bellamy does the dishes from dinner and breakfast, tidies up, and pokes around the empty houses for anything that might prove useful.

He wouldn’t really mind doing the grunt work around camp if it didn’t mean routinely coming across the bodies of previous tenants. The death wave may have spared the valley, preserving it for their use now, but it didn’t spare the people who called it home.

“Sit,” Echo says, breaking Bellamy’s train of thought before it can get too morbid. They’ve nearly reached the firepit where they cook their meals, standing in the center of what was once clearly a bustling little village. “I’ll splint your wrist.”

“Echo,” Bellamy says, “really. It’s nothing.”

He fully expects a snide comment about pride, but she just raises her eyebrows. “Let me cut your hair, then.”

He took a pair of scissors to it himself a couple weeks ago, unable to stand the way it kept getting in his eyes. “What? Why?”

Echo’s expression holds. “Because it looks ridiculous.”

Bellamy nearly laughs at this, then stops himself at the last moment, a burble of amusement catching in his chest as though hung on something sharp. Companionship is a necessity if they’re to survive the next five years, it’s true, and he’s come to the conclusion—somewhat unwillingly—that there _are_ much worse people than Echo that he could be stuck with. That doesn’t mean he should let her get too familiar. 

“You wound me,” he says dryly. “Next time, maybe.”

Echo blinks once, then nods. He almost feels as if he’s wounded her instead, but dismisses the idea. “If you like.” 

She walks off towards her hut, which stands just across the clearing from the one he claimed. They didn’t have to choose two close together—as a matter of fact, they don’t have to do much of anything together with all this space to utilize. It had seemed prudent, though, to remain within shouting distance of one another, especially after Polis.

It’s not a bad set up; Echo is quiet by nature and comfortable with solitude, though he knew as much from when they were stuck on Becca’s island. He’s noticed that she likes to leave her door open in the mornings, maybe to let in fresh air while it’s still cool out. If Bellamy wakes up early enough he usually glimpses her inside, sitting at the table and fixing her hair for the day. He’s not sure why this occurs to him as she walks away, her loose braid swaying at her back, or why the thought is so difficult to shake.

“I’ll be at the stream,” Echo says, fetching the spear she uses for fishing from where it’s propped beside her front door. “We’re running low on kindling.”

“That an order?” Bellamy mutters.

“Oh, no,” Echo says, striding smoothly back the way they came. Unphased, as usual, by anything thrown at her; sometimes he almost envies her remoteness. “I wouldn’t dream of it.” 

* * *

Teaching Echo how to drive is more tense than any sparring session. In hindsight, Bellamy isn’t sure that this should’ve come as a surprise.

“Okay, now third gear,” he says. Echo grabs for the center console without looking as though she’s being timed. “Nope, that’s the emergency brake—”

Echo flaps her hand at him. “I _know_ , just—be quiet and _let_ me—”

Bellamy huffs but falls silent, and within a few minutes without his input they’ve managed to stall out again. This time, Echo lets them sit in place for a few seconds, her nostrils flaring as she exhales a slow breath.

“This wretched thing,” she says flatly.

Bellamy sighs. “Echo, we’ve only been at it for fifteen minutes. It’s okay.”

She glances at him, then seems to actively relax her expression. She reaches between their seats to grab her canteen, maybe buying herself some time before she has to try again. “It seems to come easily enough to you.”

“Well, I’ve had practice,” Bellamy says. “If it makes you feel any better, Raven threatened to never let me near a moving vehicle again after my first time. Might’ve been because I told her to shut up and let me drive, though. Guess I know how she felt now.”

Echo rolls her eyes, pressing her lips together slightly to suppress a smile. “I didn’t tell you to shut up.”

Bellamy makes a wry face at her. “You kind of did,” he says. “It’s alright. Look, I know it’s a lot of moving parts, but it’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Echo frowns at him. “I’m not _afraid_ of this thing.”

“No,” Bellamy says slowly, “you’re afraid of not being good at something.”

She scoffs, incredulous. “I’m not.” 

“Really? Name one thing you’re not good at.”

Echo makes a frustrated noise and grips the wheel again, rather uselessly as the engine is still stalled out. “Enough games, Bellamy. Let’s do this.”

He’s not sure why teaching her to drive hasn’t occurred to him sooner—maybe because she hasn’t asked, but more likely because being able to drive has been his sole contribution to the partnership they’ve fallen into over the last three months in the valley. Echo can hunt better than he can, fight better than he can—she can darn a sock faster than he can, and he was raised by a seamstress. Knowing how to work a clutch is kind of his thing.

“Just—take a breath, okay,” Bellamy says. He reaches for the crank to roll the passenger window down in the hopes of letting in the afternoon breeze. It rained all morning, so the day has been temperate and sleepy. They didn’t spar earlier; maybe missing her daily dose of kicking his ass has shortened Echo’s temper. Maybe he’ll suggest a round after this, depending on how likely it seems that she might take her frustration out on him.

She looks like she’s contemplating getting out and walking back to camp—not that they’ve made it very far from it—but she inhales pointedly, then exhales. “Alright,” Bellamy says. “Now start the engine.”

She does, and does not complain when he coaches her through getting the vehicle in motion. They trundle along the forest path, keeping to a pace that threatens to put Bellamy to sleep, but he doesn’t complain. He learned to drive on open land first, which is admittedly less nerve-wracking for a beginner—but in lieu of taking a trip to the wasteland, this will have to do.

“Spearfishing,” Echo says, apropos of nothing, as she keeps her eyes on the path. “I wasn’t good at that, at first.”

Bellamy looks at her sidelong. “You kidding? You’re the only reason we ate, those first few weeks.”

She smiles briefly. “I’m still the only reason we eat.”

Bellamy rolls his eyes. “I picked breakfast this morning, remember?”

“Those blueberries must’ve been very difficult to catch,” Echo says, and Bellamy snorts.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. He gestures at a point ahead on the path. “Downshift and take it slow around this curve, it’s a little tight.”

She manages this maneuver handily enough, and Bellamy says, “Good.”

She huffs, but she’s visibly pleased, the corner of her mouth twitching upwards at the praise. Next she accelerates and shifts gears without a hitch. Opening the window was the right choice; Bellamy has found that everything’s easier, sweeter, with a bit of fresh air. “See,” he says, “I told you. Not so bad.”

“If there were any horses left,” Echo says dryly, “I’d put you on one. See if you could learn to ride like one of us.” 

She’s joking, of course, but he can only manage a hum. Nobody in Arkadia was ever brave enough—or reckless enough, or committed enough—to bother learning to ride horseback, except his sister.

Echo glances at him, her brows drawing together slightly. “Someday your people and mine will live here together, you know,” she says. “There will be—a future.”

Bellamy meets her eyes in the brief moment before she looks out the windshield again. It feels like the most distant of dreams to think that what’s left of humanity will find a way to survive here someday considering that there’s never _been_ peace on the ground before, and there’s certainly never been real unity. There’s only been moments of rest snagged in between bouts of bloodshed, hardly anything to call a life. 

There’s hardly any point contemplating the future. For now his people are underground, or in space, and he’s picking blueberries. They should be here, not him, enjoying the fruits of this place.

“Yeah,” he says, compelled to say something as the pause stretches on. He has to resist the urge to reach for the radio dial. “Of course.”

Echo hums softly. “Maybe not for the horses, though.”

Bellamy smiles despite himself. “Who needs them? You can drive me around now.”

“In your dreams.”

“What, you’re practically a pro,” Bellamy says, shrugging. “We’d need to get out on flat terrain for you to try out fourth gear or higher, but this is pretty much it. Tell me, is it hard being superior to me in literally every way now?”

He’s only trying to lighten the mood—and breaking a promise to himself for probably the hundredth time in the process—but he can tell this was the wrong thing to say. Echo glances at him, her brow furrowing slightly as though she’s trying to puzzle out whether she’s been insulted. “I don’t think that,” she says. “At all.”

“I know you don’t,” he says. “I was—just teasing you.”

Echo looks forward again, her mouth set thinly. “This world is hard,” she says. “You don’t often get the chance to try again if you don’t get it right the first time.”

“No,” Bellamy says, watching her profile. “I guess you don’t.”

Echo inhales softly, then shifts her grip on the steering wheel. “So,” she says. “Back to camp?”

“We can keep going for a while,” he says. When she glances at him, incredulous, he shrugs. “What, you got somewhere else to be?”

She huffs a sigh, feigning displeasure, but she can’t quite cover her smile. “No,” she says. “I guess I don’t.”

* * *

The weather begins to change in September, so subtly at first that Bellamy almost doesn’t notice. A mild summer trails seamlessly off into fall, the difference noticeable mostly in the sudden chill of morning and night.

Bellamy is at the fire pit one crisp morning, half-awake and putting on a kettle of water, when Echo walks into camp with her bow in one hand and a dead goose hanging by the neck in the other. 

Bellamy blinks at her. “Good morning,” he says.

“Yes, it is,” Echo says, looking at the bird. “This is dinner. The buck I just shot could feed us through the winter. Come on, it’s not going to haul itself in.”

The deer is impressive—a ten-point, Echo tells him, as if this information means much to him; they spend most of the day dealing with the carcass, work Echo seems to have no problem with but that turns Bellamy’s stomach. Around midafternoon she sends him off to handle the bird, which is no better, but at least there’s less of it to deal with. 

They feast that night on roasted goose, wild peas, and mushrooms. Bellamy even cracks into one of the casks of wine they found months ago; he’s been saving them—over four and a half more years to go, after all—but figures it might be worth it, just for tonight.

It’s a nice night, chilly but clear. Echo sits close to the fire while she eats, shivering slightly even bundled up in a jacket. Her hair is still damp from the bath she took after dealing with gore all day. Louwoda Kliron Kru favored flowery soaps; Bellamy can smell the clean, sweet scent of her on the breeze.

“With the venison from today and what we found of their stores, we should be good on meat until spring,” Echo says as she sets her empty plate down. “And of course we have their preserves. We can gather nuts, too, as they start to fall.”

Bellamy remembers last year too well, the only winter he’s ever known; eking out a living for hundreds with limited resources was a special kind of hell. With only two mouths to feed, though, surely they have less cause for worry. “You expecting a bad winter?”

“A cold one,” Echo muses. “This weather—it’s not usually like this, this far south. The summer was too mild.”

“Praimfaiya’s parting gift, probably,” Bellamy says. “Changing the climate.”

Echo’s mentioned terrible winters before, blizzards and avalanches that destroyed villages in the north. Such things are a fact of life to her. With as mild and uneventful as the last few months have been, it’s difficult to imagine that the valley could ever turn on them the way the rest of the planet has. How easy it still is, after everything, to take things for granted. 

Bellamy reaches for the pitcher of wine. “Here,” he says, beckoning with his free hand. “This’ll warm you up.”

She smiles and passes him her empty cup. “These people knew their drink, I’ll give them that.”

“Beats what I’m used to,” Bellamy says, and glances upwards to offer a silent apology to Monty.

Echo takes another sip of wine, her gaze on the fire. It’s been a long day, and with a full stomach and a hearty fire going, Bellamy feels pleasantly dozy; he studies the points of Echo’s cheekbones, the line of her nose, the swell of her lips, and feels something warm curl in him like smoke.

Echo glances at him and raises her eyebrows. “What?” she asks mildly. “Is something wrong?”

Yes, perhaps; Bellamy can’t tell her as much, though. It’s more his problem than hers that he looks at her now and sees an ally, not a killer. If she were almost anybody else in the world, it wouldn’t even matter that he finds her beautiful; if he thinks about her _that_ way sometimes; if every time they spar now he can’t help but imagine what it would be like to put her on her back and—

Bellamy reaches for his wine again, though he’s had a bit too much already. “Nothing,” he says. “Just thinking.”

“You looked very serious,” Echo says, and reaches out to give his knee a little nudge when he doesn’t acknowledge this. “Thinking very serious thoughts?”

She must be feeling the alcohol, too; she’s flushed, bright-eyed, her posture easy where she sits on the ground. She touched his leg. 

“Thinking about how ready for bed I am,” Bellamy says. “That’s all.”

Echo narrows her eyes slightly as if trying to suss something out, her lips quirking. Bellamy looks away. “I’ll clear up,” he says. “You did all the hard work today.”

“If you insist,” Echo says archly, leaning back slightly to rest her weight on her hands. He might be imagining it, but he can feel her eyes following him until they part for the night. There’s a shameful pleasure in knowing that she studies him, too.

* * *

Echo’s prediction is right—winter comes early and cold. It snows for the first time in mid-October, just a light spit one morning that doesn’t really stick; Bellamy indulges himself for a few minutes and sits outside to watch it fall, at least until Echo catches him at it and he has to pretend to be waiting for her so they can spar.

The next time, only a few weeks later, isn’t quite as charming. It starts snowing in late afternoon and only strengthens as the day slides into dusk. They rarely get strong winds in the valley, which is fortunate, but Bellamy supposes that will make it easier for any kind of storm to stall over them. 

The houses in the valley aren’t built to trap heat, further evidence that this kind of weather is atypical. Bellamy resigns himself to a long, uncomfortable night—and possibly a long, uncomfortable few months to follow—and has already bundled up under a blanket by the fire for the evening when Echo comes knocking.

He sheds the blanket, gets up, and goes to the door. She’s wrapped in a fur and holding a bundle of kindling. “I thought you might be running low,” she says, gesturing with the wood.

He is, although he’s not sure how she would’ve guessed as much, other than pure luck. “Thanks,” he says, stepping aside to let her in. It’s snowing heartily outside, the ground cover nearly ankle deep, but it’s still light and flaky. Bellamy shuts the door against the cold, then turns to watch as Echo deposits the pile of kindling in the corner of the room.

“You didn’t have to bring me anything,” he tells her. “I would’ve been fine until morning.”

“Yes, well,” she says, taking a log and carrying it to the fire, “consider it charity. I didn’t know how well a Sky person would take to the cold.”

“Space is cold,” Bellamy says. “I can deal with a little bit of snow.”

Echo nudges the whiskey bottle on the floor with the toe of her boot. “Is this how you were planning to deal with it all winter?” 

“I’ve had a few sips,” Bellamy says with as much dignity as he can manage, and Echo laughs, a warm chuckle that makes him flush with some combination of embarrassment and pleasure.

She stokes the fire once, then returns the poker to its spot by the hearth and moves for the door again. “Wait,” Bellamy says as she passes him. “You can—hang out, if you want.”

Echo pauses, glancing at him. “I left my fire going.”

“Oh,” he says, nodding. “Okay.”

“Let me put it out,” she says, her expression thoughtful. “I’ll be back.”

They only saw each other a few hours ago—but it’s going to be a long night, he reminds himself as she leaves. They all are, and it’s only gotten worse the colder they’ve become. He’ll be living here for years and yet can’t imagine three, four, hell, six months of the cold and the dark.

Echo returns within a few minutes, and this time sheds her boots and tosses her fur coat over a chair. There’s snow in her hair, flecks of white that melt within seconds when she comes close to the fire. Bellamy’s put out another blanket beside the hearth for her to sit on. He has a table, but this is warmer, plus he can get enough light to see by without wasting candles or the flashlight’s power.

Echo nods at the book on the floor as she sits down. “Writing again?”

“Here and there,” he says. “Killing time.”

It’s a child’s sketchbook, the paper loosely bound inside a leather cover; Bellamy felt too guilty to tear the used pages out when he found it, so it’s already half full. Besides, the drawings and scribbles remind him of Octavia, and he writes to her. For her.

“Mm,” Echo says, and reaches for the whiskey bottle. “I’ve been sharpening my blades.”

He smiles. “Of course you have.”

She gives him a look as she takes a swig from the bottle, then can’t quite manage to cover her grimace at the taste. When she recovers, she says, “You object to us being well-defended?”

He rolls his eyes. “Defended from _who_?”

“The mountain lion that gives you the spooks, for one.”

“It does not give me _the spooks_ ,” Bellamy says. The screams from the woods are startling, that’s all. “It’s not a bad thing. Just—practical, as usual.”

She glances at him, then looks away and shifts her weight, setting the bottle down and gathering the blanket more closely around her legs. “I’m not always practical.”

Bellamy thinks of Praimfaiya, of her screaming his name from the base of the tower. He can’t argue with that.

He takes another sip of whiskey. “Think this’ll stick?”

“No,” Echo says. “Too early for that, yet.”

Quiet falls, comfortable after all this time; Echo casts her gaze idly around the room, taking in his boots left haphazardly at the door and the jacket tossed over the table. “Sorry,” Bellamy says dryly. “I wasn’t expecting company.”

She shrugs, her gaze on the unmade bed in the corner. “I’ve seen worse.”

She reaches for the whiskey, and he passes it to her; her cold, calloused fingers brush his around the neck of the bottle. “Why’d you come over here, Echo?” he asks.

She meets his gaze, seemingly a little startled by the question. He watches her face while she assesses him for a few seconds as if she’s weighing her options. Practical and calculating to a fault.

“Company,” she says finally. “I suppose.”

 _Do you get as lonely as I do?_ he almost asks her, but the very idea is ludicrous. Echo is used to solo work, secrecy, crossing enemy lines. Surely that solitude has prepared her, in some ways, for this. But sometimes, when she looks at him, he could swear it’s as if—

“Bellamy,” Echo says softly. He’s not sure at first if she’s trying to warn him of something, _away_ from something, but then her gaze drops down to his mouth, and it feels like she’s giving him permission.

Her mouth is soft, inviting, when he kisses her; she smells woodsy and sweet, like she’s been burning incense. Her fingers are cool, her touch delicate, when she reaches up to clasp his jaw. He decides he wants her hands everywhere, wants to pour himself into her until she’s warm.

It’s not too cold, tangled in blankets by the fire, to peel their clothes off; he forgets to think once her thighs are around his waist, and maybe it’s for the best. Nobody but Echo ever has to know about this, after all. It’s lonely, living after the end of the world, and self-denial always wears down to the bone eventually.

They doze on the floor afterwards, wrapped in the mess of blankets; this is the part he _really_ shouldn’t allow, but the fire is close by and her hair smells nice, a drugging sweetness to it. Bellamy rouses an indeterminate amount of time later, but hours must have passed, judging by the way the fire has burnt down to a soft glow in the hearth. 

Echo shifts, her back against his chest, and murmurs his name; it’s easy, too easy, to slide a hand down her sternum, then the flat plane of her belly, and find where she’s still slick and warm. He rubs her clit in slow, steady circles, and she gasps and murmurs his name again, pleased this time. She hitches her leg up, and it’s _easy_ to slip back into her, like he never left. 

Bellamy presses his face into her hair and doesn’t think at all. He doesn’t even open his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extremely bold of j.rot to think i'd believe bellamy blake has even six months' worth of self-control in him
> 
> title from "i need a forest fire" by hozier ft. bon iver


	3. icarus to your certainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wishes he wouldn’t play stupid; it doesn’t suit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> skip to the endnotes for this chapter for some mildly spoiler-y content warnings, if the tags aren't spoiler-y enough for you.
> 
> title from "sunshine" by hozier.

Bellamy doesn’t stir when Echo slips out of his bed. It’s fortunate this morning that he’s a fairly heavy sleeper; she isn’t at her most stealthy as she fumbles on her boots and coat in the semi-darkness, racing against time.

The cold hits her like a slap as she steps outside, but once the initial shock passes, the crisp air steadies her slightly. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, trying to marshal herself. It’s early yet, still dark enough that the buildings around her are just shadows as she takes a few cautious steps away from the door.

 _I will not be sick_ , Echo thinks, _I will not be sick_. She used to whisper the same thing to herself in the cage after bleedings, when the nausea would last for hours. 

At the very thought of the mountain, she tips forward and retches into the icy grass. 

She straightens up once the worst has passed, wiping at her mouth with the back of a trembling, clammy hand. This is the third morning in a row she’s woken up with a sour stomach, but today is the worst yet. At first she thought it might’ve been the venison. She’s never been closely involved in food preparation before, her role in the guard rendering such tasks beneath her. She knows the basics, but they could’ve done something wrong, and the meat could be off. 

But Bellamy eats everything she does, and he’s fine.

She goes back to her hut, which sits in cold darkness as it has for weeks now. She cleans her teeth, changes clothes, braids her hair, and splashes frigid water from the basin on her face. She’s wide awake now, still vaguely queasy; she might as well get ready for the day. Her bow and quiver sit in the corner, gathering dust—she could go into the woods and get them a bird for tonight, perhaps.

Instead, loathing herself a little for it, she goes back to Bellamy.

He shifts slightly under the blankets when she opens the door, but doesn’t rouse. His back is to the door, only a mess of dark hair visible from under the covers. She puts a log on the embers in the hearth, then undresses down to her shirt and underwear and slips back into bed.

Bellamy is frowning in his sleep, as he often is. Cognizant of her cold fingers, Echo doesn’t reach up to stroke at his furrowed brow or the tight clench of his jaw when the desire to do so occurs to her, but he rouses within a few seconds anyways, exhaling into wakefulness. “You’re cold,” he mumbles. “Why’re you cold?”

“It’s cold outside,” she murmurs back.

He rumbles softly. “No shit.”

She huffs, amused, and he shifts, draping a heavy arm over her middle and drawing her against himself. Echo once would’ve objected to being handled so, but she doesn’t mind it much now. He’s warm, all body heat and bare skin. Some days it feels like, if it weren’t for the cold, they wouldn’t bother getting dressed at all.

She indulges herself, wrapping an arm around him and trailing her fingers down his spine. He squirms, wrinkling his nose slightly. He hasn’t opened his eyes yet, still half-asleep. “Cold.”

“Sorry,” she says.

“Liar.” 

She smiles, though something in her thrills guiltily at this; there’s no malice in his voice, though. He shifts closer, tucking his sleep-warm face into the crook of her neck. She gentles her touch on his lower back as much as she can without tickling him. 

“We should spar after breakfast,” Echo murmurs to him. “It’s been days.”

“Mm,” he hums. “We’ve been keeping active.”

He presses his mouth against her neck as he speaks, giving her the barest ghost of a kiss. She inhales and feels him smile, the quick, cocksure grin that always leaves her with the vague urge to knock him in the dirt. It would be infuriating if she weren’t already trembling for it—it’s infuriating _because_ she’s trembling for it.

There’s never been anyone else before him; Echo reminds herself of this whenever she feels as though she’s given up too much of herself, spread herself too wide for his hands, his mouth, his cock. Maybe this is how it always feels. If that’s true, it makes sense that she was told never to have it.

She’ll feel better if she comes, as she always does; sex really is the most deliriously drugging experience. She doesn’t stop him when he shifts down under the blankets, and she certainly doesn’t when he pulls her underwear down, nor when lifts her legs over his shoulders and puts his head between her thighs. 

She closes her eyes and relaxes, forgets, at least until she squirms and Bellamy presses down lightly on her stomach to hold her in place. She flinches reflexively and grabs his wrist to move his hand. If he even notices anything amiss, he mercifully doesn’t stop to question it.

She comes twice on his tongue, with full body shudders both times, each one half shiver and half wordless pleasure. Bellamy surfaces for air, his hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed, his mouth shiny. She doesn’t resist the impulse to touch his face now, clasping his jaw briefly as they look at each other.

He licks his bottom lip. “You okay?” he husks.

“What?” she says. “Yes. Fine.”

She draws him in for a kiss, licking the taste of herself from his mouth; he moans softly, easily contented by this. She loops her arms over his shoulders and wraps her legs around his hips, pulling him in.

He whispers things to her sometimes when he fucks her—mindless nonsense that slides into the core of her every time anyway, _god sweetheart you like that huh you’re so wet fuck i wanna make you come_ —but he’s quiet now, his face tucked into her neck as he grinds slowly into her. She feels noisy by comparison, even the sound of her breathing pitchy and embarrassing in the early morning quiet. She wants him to fuck her hard enough that she can’t think, but he seems to be aware that she’s in need of tenderness instead.

She goads him a little bit, purring his name into his ear until he gives in and quickens his pace. Bellamy likes that, her saying his name when they’re like this; how strange it is to know that now.

“Gonna come,” he mumbles, and she unwinds her trembling limbs from around him. He comes in her hand, shivering over her, his head bowed.

He’s kind enough to get out of bed and fetch her a handkerchief, but instead of staying up or getting dressed, he crawls back under the blankets, shivering now from the chill. “It’s still dark,” he says, as if answering a complaint she hasn’t made. “We’ve got all day.”

Echo doesn’t argue this. He curls up next to her, making himself comfortable, and she rolls over onto her side to face him. He closes his eyes, forgoing any conversation, but reaches out and rests a hand lightly on her hip as if to keep her close.

Yes, she decides as she studies his face, they have all day; for now, they have time. He really has made such a fool of her.

* * *

She’s able to keep up the facade for another week. No mean feat, considering they spend nearly every waking moment together now, but Echo is fairly accomplished at hiding things.

They usually wait until around midday to spar these days, though the temperature increases only fractionally even with full sunlight. Nevertheless, Echo is covered in cold, slick sweat underneath her furs today; moisture beads on her upper lip, salty and unpleasant. _I will not be sick._

Bellamy brings his sword down in a high arc and she parries, then lurches backwards when he takes a swipe at her ribs with his free hand. She stumbles, her sense of equilibrium failing her. The hilt of her sword thuds softly as it hits the earth. _I will not be sick, I will not be sick, I will_ not—

“Echo?” Bellamy says, his voice muffled. “Echo!”

She struggles back to awareness and finds herself half-standing, Bellamy clumsily supporting her with an arm around her waist and a hand on the back of her neck. Her feet are on the ground but her legs are useless, bent-kneed under her. 

“Hey,” Bellamy says, his expression nakedly panicked. “You with me?”

Echo licks dry lips. “You win this bout.”

“Can you stand?” Bellamy says, ignoring this. “Echo? What’s wrong?”

Echo closes her eyes, her head throbbing at the volume and urgency of his questions. She sucks in a steadying breath, then grabs at Bellamy’s upper arms to give herself the balance needed to straighten up. He keeps hold of her waist, but she mercifully does not sway again. She’s suffered enough of an indignity as it is.

“Come on,” he says, “let’s get you inside.”

Echo nods, opening her eyes. She doesn’t meet his gaze, already close to vomiting without having to read the concern in his expression. She turns unsteadily towards the village, but isn’t quick enough to escape him; he keeps an arm looped around her waist as they traipse back, though she can walk under her own power now.

The relative warmth of his house has her nearly swooning again, but she covers it, walking as calmly as she can to the table and sitting down in a chair. “Echo,” Bellamy says, following her fretfully, “maybe you should lie down.”

“I’m fine,” Echo says. Lying down would probably help, but she’s made her choice now. “Give me a minute, and we can go back to sparring.”

“Like hell,” he says. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“Just give me a minute,” Echo says, closing her eyes again. The fainting spell is receding gradually into simple dizziness; as long as she doesn’t make any sudden movements, she should be fine soon enough.

Bellamy moves away, his boots scuffing on the wooden floor. Water splashes quietly at the basin. Echo opens her eyes when he sets a cup down on the table a moment later. “Drink,” he says, shifting to stand opposite her. “It might help.”

It won’t, but she takes a sip to appease him. 

“Echo,” he says.

She sighs. “I’m alright, Bellamy.”

“I need you to be straight with me for once,” he says. “What’s going on?”

She says nothing, looking up at him. He’s pale, too; he looks openly rattled, his brown eyes wide. 

“You’re not yourself,” he says. “You’ve barely been eating. I know you’ve been sick. If something’s wrong, I need to know.”

Still she says nothing, and he continues, picking up steam. “I figured it could be—radiation sickness, I don’t know. Maybe something’s changed. But I need you to tell me. Maybe there’s something I can do, Echo, but I can’t if you don’t _talk_ to me.” 

Echo swallows. She forces herself to hold his gaze; she really is such a terrible coward, an honorless, weak _coward_ , but she owes him this much. “This is nothing you can help me with, Bellamy.”

He’s nearing the truth; she can see it in his eyes, the first glimmer of suspicion. “What are you talking about?”

“My time is late,” she says.

He stares at her. “How late?”

“Three weeks,” Echo says. “At least.”

“Three _weeks_ ,” he says. “Christ, Echo, when were you going to say something?”

She has no answer for this. His aghast stare is damning enough; her stomach has turned into a pit of snakes. She holds herself perfectly still, resisting the urge to reach for the cup to occupy her hands. _I will not move._

Bellamy’s gaze drifts slightly as he processes this information. Finally, he draws the other chair away from the table and sits down. “You’re sure?” he asks.

There’s no denying it now. The sickness that comes and goes, the dizzy spells, the soreness of her breasts, the blood that won’t come; she could have excused almost any symptom in isolation, but together, the truth is unavoidable. She nods.

“You’ve been sparring like this,” Bellamy says, his look growing accusatory as this occurs to him. “You let me _fight_ you—”

Echo swallows again. “There are stories of the Ice Queen leading forces against Trikru weeks before the prince was born.”

Bellamy makes a frustrated noise, shifting restlessly in his seat, and Echo abandons this tactic. It was more for her own benefit than his, anyway. Quiet falls again; Bellamy looks at the table for a few moments, his brow furrowed. Finally he looks at her again. “Is there—anything we can do?” 

“There’s an herb I know of,” Echo says. “Any healer in the Ice Nation would’ve kept some on hand, dried and ready. I haven’t been able to find any, wild or in the village.”

He nods slowly. “There’s—other ways,” Echo says. “But—”

“Risky,” Bellamy says. “Unless you know what you’re doing.”

“Yes,” Echo says. “I’ve never had cause to learn such things.”

Bellamy bites his lower lip briefly, lost in thought. Echo starts to say his name but hesitates, wary of upsetting him further.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally. “ _Shit_. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Echo says. “Not yours alone, at least.”

He reaches up to run a hand through his hair, disheveling it wildly. “You just—started going down,” he says. “We’ve been sparring, God, I could’ve—”

“It’s true, illness on my part is your advantage,” Echo says. “But I’m alright.”

He gives her a dark look. “This isn’t funny, Echo.”

She’s never found anything less amusing in her life, but for once she’s at a loss for the appropriate way to navigate a conversation. “It’s my burden to bear, Bellamy.”

“Like hell it is,” he says, outraged. “Don’t I have a right to know about this?”

He does, of course, but still she’s said nothing, these last few weeks; she says nothing even now. She imagines drawing inward, moving inside herself like going home or cloistering herself away. She can weather his anger and his disappointment better there.

He must _know_ why she hasn’t said anything—because now it’s over. They can’t go on as before, not knowing now what they both do. There’s no way to live in ignorant bliss with such uncertainty hanging overhead.

She stands, finally steady on her feet. “Echo, damn it, talk to me,” Bellamy says, looking up at her like a man adrift. She recognizes his despairing look intimately. 

“There’s nothing more to say,” Echo says, turning away. “I’m sorry.”

* * *

He calls after her, of course, and follows her, but once she reaches her front door, he abandons the pursuit. She leaves him standing uselessly in the center of camp, his mouth ajar.

She’s being cowardly—downright childish, perhaps. But this is for the best; Bellamy will come to see that. She should’ve never let him get so close. She knew it would come to something like this sooner or later, one of them wounding the other once again—she would have to fail him eventually. 

Admittedly, the circumstances are more damning than she could’ve anticipated.

It’s surprisingly easy to avoid him; the cold means that neither of them can stand to spend extended periods of time outdoors, and she times her trips to their stores—when she can manage to eat—to avoid him as best she can. When encounters are unavoidable, he insists on asking her how she’s feeling, but never mentions her condition by name. Perhaps he’s begun to accept his impotence just as she has accepted her own. 

He leaves fresh kindling at her door every morning, which is kind of him.

The sickness continues to ebb and flow throughout her days, but worsens overall; after another two weeks with still no monthly blood in sight, she’s nearly given up eating altogether. She glimpses Bellamy lingering outside more than once during these weeks, occupying himself with menial tasks and watching her door. 

She stumbles outside to vomit one morning to find that it’s snowing again for the first time in weeks. It must’ve begun overnight, as there’s a crunchy layer of white on the ground already. She feels feverish despite the cold, warm and clammy under her clothes; she didn’t even have time to put her fur on before darting outside. She wipes her mouth, limps inside, and fumbles her way back into bed in the semidarkness.

Her door opens without warning, scraping across the wooden floor. One of the hinges needs fixing; she’s been meaning to get around to it for days. Echo stiffens and opens her eyes instinctively, but of course it’s Bellamy in the doorway, a broad-shouldered figure backlit by the rising dawn.

“Echo,” he says. “This has gone on long enough.”

She squints at him and sits up on her elbows. “What are you doing in here?”

He shuts the door, mercifully blocking out the cold air, and steps farther into the room. As she watches numbly, he shrugs off his coat and hangs it by the door like it belongs there. “Well, for starters, I can hear you puking your guts out morning and night, so I thought you might need some help.”

“With what?” Echo says. “It’s a one-man job.”

“Yeah, well, you’re doing great at it,” he says dryly. The floorboards creak under his boots as he moves to the hearth. He stokes the fire and the room brightens slightly. “But I can help with other things.”

Echo withholds a sigh. “Get out, Bellamy. I’m not in the mood.”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he says, straightening up and turning to face her. His expression is serious, no-nonsense. She feels like a child being scolded. “Let me help you.”

Echo glares at him. “You’ve done plenty.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry. I’m being—well.” 

He shifts his weight, standing awkwardly near her table and lone chair. The table is covered with stray clothes she’s cast aside over the last few weeks and been too lazy and tired to deal with. The whole place probably smells like a sickroom. If only he would just—

“I’m sorry for how I reacted,” Bellamy says. “I didn’t handle that news as well as I probably could have.”

Echo softens despite herself. “You handled it better than I expected,” she says. She was expecting far worse. Still is, really.

“Is that how little you think of me?” Bellamy asks quietly, watching her with a furrowed brow. “That I would blame you for this? I mean, clearly you think I’m fine with seeing you suffer, but—that’s low.”

She sighs and sits up fully. “I don’t think that.” 

“Then what is it?” he asks. “Is it something I’ve done?”

“No,” she says, her tone leaping before she manages to check it. She inhales, then continues, “I don’t want—I don’t ever want you to feel forced into something. That’s all.”

“Forced,” he repeats.

“Bellamy,” Echo says flatly. “I am _literally_ the last woman on earth.”

His frown deepens. “What are you talking about?”

She wishes he wouldn’t play stupid; it doesn’t suit him. “This,” she says, gesturing broadly to encompass both herself and their surroundings. “Everything. Were the circumstances different, I know you wouldn’t have chosen this. You _didn’t_ choose this.”

 _She_ did, as a matter of fact—she chose to go running through the forest after him, even knowing that he hated her, that he would rather she be far away from him or even dead. She doesn’t really think he begrudges her that now; he’d be alone or dead if she wasn’t here. But she made that choice for him, and everything has rippled outwards from there.

He stares at her for a few seconds, his expression difficult to read. He looks thoughtful, almost regretful. She looks away after a moment, unwilling to watch the shift that must be coming. Surely he’s preparing to let her down gently; she’d hoped to avoid that.

“Echo,” he says. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” she says. “But it’s true.”

“You’re so sure of that,” he says. “But you’ve never once asked me what I thought.”

She says nothing, staring at a crease in the blankets and resisting the urge to fidget with it, to smooth it out. “Of course I wish my people were here,” he says. “I wish we weren’t alone. Maybe—maybe things would’ve turned out differently, if circumstances were different. I don’t know. But I wouldn’t change who I’m with.”

Echo looks up at him in disbelief, but he doesn’t falter. “You’re the only one who came looking for me,” he says. “And I don’t fault the others for that—I knew the choice they would have to make. But it does mean something to me that you did.”

He moves closer as he speaks, cautiously, like he’s approaching a spooked animal. He surprises her once more by dropping slowly to a crouch next to the bed, so that their faces are level.

“I haven’t had a say about a lot of things in my life,” he says, looking evenly at her. “And I know you haven’t, either, so you know how it feels. Don’t try to take my choices from me now.”

She swallows. “Bellamy . . .”

“I’ll leave if you want me to,” he says. “But unless something changes, Echo, this isn’t going away. And you will need me sooner or later.”

He holds her gaze. _Together?_ he’d asked her all those months ago in Polis, with the same honest look, the same steadfastness. If there’s anyone in the world to trust—anyone to lean on—is it not Bellamy? 

She nods as if answering her own question. “There’s—,” she begins, then clears her throat. “There’s a pouch on the shelf. Would you make some tea?”

He blinks a couple times, then nods, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards. “Yeah,” he says. “Of course.”

She feels alright now—the nausea generally doesn’t linger, at least not unmanageably—but tea has been the only thing she’s consistently been able to stomach. He makes her the tea. Then, before she can say anything to stop him, he begins tidying up—clearing away the clothes and stray dishes, sweeping the floor, and straightening the shelves. She feels vaguely ashamed to have let the room get this way, but senses Bellamy finds a certain kind of relief in the act of caring for someone else. His movements are easy now, confident. She doesn’t stop him.

Next he goes to fetch tools with which to work on the door. “It’s coming down out there,” he says when he returns, wiping the moisture of melting snow from his cheeks. “Sky looks pretty nasty.”

“Well,” Echo says, pulling her knees to her chest, cradling the cup of warm tea in her hands. “We’ll manage.”

He looks at her briefly, his expression thoughtful, then hums affirmingly before getting to work. He looks to be on the verge of smiling.

* * *

Snow rarely sticks for longer than a few days in the valley. Echo is used to long, arduous winters, of course, but not having to wear snowshoes every time she goes outside is fortunate, given her present condition.

She seems to have weathered the worst of it; the fatigue and malaise continue, but the nausea and dizziness begin to abate within another few weeks. She feels well enough after three weeks that she could probably go back to hunting and even sparring, but Bellamy would fret, so she holds off.

She has missed his company—his companionship, not just his touch, which she isn’t sure she’ll feel again. They didn’t just have sex all day during those easy weeks—they talked, too. He spoke a great deal about life on the Ark; being cooped up indoors for long stretches reminded him of home, he told her. She began teaching him Trigedasleng, though her lessons were a bit inconsistent. Perhaps they’ll get back to that, if nothing else.

She isn’t alarmed one morning when he isn’t at her door bright and early. Perhaps he’s sleeping in. Then she glances out the window and realizes, with a sinking feeling, that the Rover is gone.

He could’ve gone anywhere. The Rover needs to be driven periodically to keep the parts in good shape. He’ll be back.

Perhaps thirty minutes later, Echo is sitting at the table with an untouched cup of tea when she hears the thrum of the Rover’s engine approaching. She resists the urge to jump to her feet, instead keeping her seat and listening to the sounds of movement outdoors until she hears Bellamy cursing nearby. 

She darts to the door and opens it to find him just outside, holding a large wooden object. “Sorry, did I startle you?” he asks, grimacing. “Hit my shin with this thing.”

She steps aside, as he seems to expect entry; he carefully angles the object to get it through the door without damaging it, then carries it to the far corner of her room and sits it down on its four legs. “It’s a—,”

“A cradle,” Echo says, staring at it.

It’s modestly-sized, though it takes up a good deal of room in her small abode. It looks well-made, the wood sturdy and polished, albeit in need of a good dusting. A Louwoda Kliron Kru symbol has been carved into the frame. Through her shock, Echo feels a twinge of sorrow for the child it was built for.

“I knew I remembered seeing one when we were searching for supplies, but I wasn’t sure where,” Bellamy says, stepping closer to the cradle and giving it a rock, as if displaying it for her. It needs oiling, but otherwise moves fine. “Then I remembered it was in one of the houses miles out in the woods.” 

Echo steps closer, too, more out of compulsion than anything. Bellamy continues speaking as she comes to stand beside him. “We can move it if you think it takes up too much space. I know it’s early, but I’m not exactly handy, so I figured it was best to know now if we need to figure something else out.”

Echo nods, reaching out to still the movement of the cradle. The wood is smooth under her fingertips, a rich, pretty oak. _If we need to figure something out._ We.

“Echo?” Bellamy says, watching her. “Is this—alright?”

Echo swallows, then nods. “Yes,” she says. “It’s nice.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Someone worked hard on it.”

They’re both silent for a moment, perhaps thinking of the same thing. Such incalculable loss. 

“It’s a good thing, though,” Bellamy says finally. “That it won’t go unused. Better the baby uses it than it keeps gathering dust, right?”

Echo traces a finger over the symbol carved into the wood. “The baby,” she says, hardly aware she’s speaking.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “You knew we were having one of those, right?”

She glances up at his arch tone. “ _Shof op_.”

He smiles, sheepish. “Sorry,” he says. “Just teasing.”

She knows he is, and of course she _knows_ about the baby. There’s a curve to her stomach already; it’s hardly visible under her thick winter sweaters and pants, so Bellamy may not be aware of it, but soon it will be difficult to disguise. Of course she’s aware that she’s pregnant. But thinking of it that way, as a condition, is one thing—thinking about a baby, _the_ baby, is another thing entirely. She’s been so consumed with illness—with fear—these last several weeks that it’s been difficult to think ahead in the way that Bellamy seems to have been.

“You okay?” Bellamy asks. She can feel his eyes on her.

“Fine,” she says. “I just—don’t know anything about babies. Or children.”

“Well,” Bellamy says. “I might be a little rusty. But I think I’m okay at it.”

She looks at him; he’s watching her, his expression strangely soft. His sister, of course—he must’ve raised her every bit as much as their mother did. She’s not sure how to feel about a child of her own; the very thought threatens to pull her down into the pit inside herself where feelings go. But a child of Bellamy’s—that doesn’t frighten her so much. That might even be a fine thing, a wonderful thing.

“Oh,” Bellamy says, pulling her from her thoughts. He shifts, reaching for the pocket of his coat. “I almost forgot.”

He pulls out something small and metallic and hands it to her—a battered tin. She unscrews the lid and finds the container half-full of loose, mildly aromatic tea leaves. 

“I don’t know if it’s what you like,” Bellamy says. “But I know you’re running low, so I figured I’d grab it.”

Echo swallows with a suddenly tight throat. “Oh,” she says, screwing the lid back on. “Thank you.”

“Echo?”

“It’s dusty,” Echo says, blinking a few times. “That’s all.”

He laughs at this, but not unkindly. “It’s alright,” he says. “Hey. It’s okay.”

He’s giving her that expression again, the soft, slightly measured look, like he’s studying her. He needs a shave; a shadow blooms at his jaw after weeks of going without. The freckles on his nose are winter-light, only visible when standing this close. She’s missed this closeness far more than she realized; how attuned she’s become to his comings and goings, despite her very best efforts to never become attached to anybody.

“Bellamy,” Echo says, reaching for the front of his coat, “I—”

He sways forward slightly when she pulls him in, though he goes a little still when she kisses him, holding his breath for a beat. Finally he relaxes and allows her to deepen the kiss, but he doesn’t touch her, doesn’t pull her against him like she wants. 

She breaks away after a moment, watching his face. “I’m sorry,” she says, letting go of his coat. “I—”

“No, it’s alright,” he says quickly. “I just—I’ve been waiting, I thought maybe you—still wanted space, or—”

Echo shakes her head, almost dizzy from the way she lurches from horror to hope.

“No,” she says. “I don’t want space.”

He looks at her evenly. “Then what do you want?”

“You,” she says, plunging ahead, bold at this in a way she’s rarely been before. “I want you here. I want to take you to bed.”

She watches the look in his eyes shift from surprise—even wonder—to something warmer, heavier, something she recognizes. 

_We_ , he’d said. _Together._

He smiles. “Well, sweetheart,” he says. “I’m ready when you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: unplanned pregnancy, vomiting, illness, discussions of abortion, implicit and explicit (but mild) self-loathing, brief/mild ptsd.


End file.
